


The Chronicles of a Criminal Mastermind

by nightmare_kisser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Crime, Daddy Kink, Drabble Collection, Drug Abuse, Humor, Implied Oral Sex, Insanity, M/M, Murder, Psychopath, Slash, Torture, fantasies, implied sex, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmare_kisser/pseuds/nightmare_kisser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All's fair in love and war; and darling, do I <i>love</i> war."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chronicles of a Criminal Mastermind

I.

When James Moriarty was a boy, he was known as Jimmy. And when he was Jimmy, he was the highest of his class and he was able to perfectly manipulate all his private school teachers into making him Teacher's Pet, and no one liked him because he was too smart and too weird and too _abnormal._

But he knew he was extraordinary. He knew he could manipulate them to like him, too, if he wanted. He knew he could get anything if he asked the right way, and he knew that he could be grades ahead of everyone else his age if he cared to be. Because Jimmy was a child prodigy, a naturally gifted mind. He could tell just by looking at all the other children that he was superior to them.

They were ordinary, and he was not. They were simple, adorable primates and he was above them all. But he kept to himself his secret genius, because while he liked attention, he knew not to draw in the wrong sort.

So Jimmy would smile and make jokes and trick other children into becoming his playmates, errand boys, bodyguards, and entertainment. They were all so gullible – most children are, but ordinary children are even _more_ gullible – and he ate it up, seeing what he could say or do to push the boundaries. How he could cause trouble without getting into trouble himself.

None of the teachers ever traced any of the incidents at his primary school back to Jimmy. But Jimmy did it, every last incident. He organized schoolyard fights, candy-smuggling schemes, and pick-pocketing off the staff. He taught them, paid them off, befriended them, made them pinky-promise; anything he had to do.

And all this began within his first year of schooling.

II.

Animals are fascinating.

Jimmy picks up a dead rabbit off the side of the road near his house. He brings it into the shed in his backyard, stands on a wobbly stool to reach some of the gardening tools, and gets to work.

He dissects it piece by piece, studying and inspecting all the inner workings of the thirteen-hour-old deceased rabbit.

Gore covers his ungloved fingers, and inside, there are treasures like maggots and bits of tire tar and gravel. It gives the nine-year-old boy a full picture of how the creature suffered its death.

He closes his eyes and imagines it. The little fluffy bunny must have been grazing on clover growing near the road – its stomach contents tell him that much – and it was looking for more, so it went to hop, hop, hop across the street to the other side. But it didn't hear or see the car turning the bend, racing toward it, and it was too late. It leap out of the way but the brunt force of the grill knocked the rabbit clear off the road, twisting his head 'round, severing its spinal chord in its neck.

It for was the best, though, really; it enabled Jimmy the chance to have a bit of biological fun for a spell.

III.

When Jim is fourteen, his concerned mother takes him thrice times a week to a therapist to diagnose him.

Jim cooperates because he has nothing better to do and honestly don't care what they think is "wrong" with him. As far as he can tell, there is something wrong with everyone _else_ because they are all stupid and ordinary and not like Jim.

The therapist consults multiple others, and they tell Jim's mother this:

One, that Jim has A.D.D. – but it isn't _his_ fault that everything is boring and plain and simple and he needs distractions from it all.

Two, that Jim is a narcissist – well, of _course_ he is. No one is as bloody brilliant as he is, and no one ever will be, because as far as Jim can tell, he is utterly unique.

And three, that Jim possesses the beginnings of a psychopath – but really, it's nothing they should be worried about. He isn't going to _kill_ them. He's but a bit apathetic and likes to cut open things and see their insides and frame people for things he did and con people into doing whatever he wants, as well as watch others squirm in pain. It's nothing serious. They shouldn't be so judgmental about it. _Psychopath. Humph._

It doesn't faze Jim at all. He plans on being emancipated soon enough, and going his own way. His mother won't need to worry about him or his supposed mental issues at all.

IV.

Carl Powers was an athlete. He was popular and a relatively good student. And he loved his shoes.

Jim wasn't very popular. At one point, everyone picked up on the sense that something was off about him, so they began to stray away from his softly intimidating presence.

Carl Powers didn't.

He made fun of Jim. He laughed at him. He wouldn't give Jim his shoes, or even tell him where he got them so Jim could also buy a pair. Others supported Carl; they laughed with him at Jim.

So Jim came up with a plan. And he executed his first murder seamlessly. The police were stumped. They dismissed it easily.

Jim got his shoes. His stopped Carl's laughing. And it was so satisfying, so utterly _empowering_ to see Carl Powers face-up in that pool, floating with staring, blank eyes and pale skin, water droplets collecting on the cooling body.

But someone else was interested in it. They were suspicious. They were named Sherlock Holmes, and they were just as out of the ordinary as Jim himself.

Jim found someone to investigate. He wanted to see where Sherlock Holmes would wind up in life.

Jim prayed it was right down his alley, because this Holmes character would make for the best distraction from run-of-the-mill life.

V.

When Jim meets Sebastian Moran, about seven men are restraining him. He's thrashing about and streaming out a slew of curses even a sailor would be ashamed of. Jim is the ominous _Moriarty_ by this point, but he is still in his early twenties. He worms his way through the men and gently touches Moran's chin.

Moran stills instantly, and the men buckle down on him.

But Jim calls them off, paying them large sums of money taken from stolen credit card identities and they leave, being paid to make sure all the charges on Sebastian Moran are dropped.

"Hello, sweetie~," Jim greets with a smile, bending over to peer down at where Sebastian sits on the ground, bloody and bruised, battered all over with scars, and filthy. His hair is a mess, too long, and there is at least a week's time of stubble on his face. But damn, if he isn't the sexiest thing Jim has seen to date. "Daddy needs a talented sniper, and you're just the toy Daddy wants. Will you work for me~?" And Jim holds out a cigarette.

Sebastian doesn't even speak. He simply leans forward, takes the end of the cigarette into his mouth, and Jim proceeds to light it for him and help Sebastian to his feet.

" _Good boy._ Now, come along; we need to get you cleaned up. Such a mess, you are~."

VI.

The man in the chair struggles vehemently, straining against his bindings, and screaming his head off. Tears are in his bloodshot eyes, the pupils small, the whites wide, all from unadulterated fear.

Jim loves the smell of panic-induced sweat in the morning.

"Seb, where's my latte?" Jim calls out, keeping his voice high and happy, but not sing-song for once. He smiles, even, in that sick, devilish way he does, and then turns his attention back to the man in the chair. "Now then…" he begins softly, nearly a whisper. He leans down beside the man and brings up the circular shears meant to snip the ends off of cigars. He slips the man's finger through the hole and cocks his head. "Where were we? Ah, yes… you were about to tell me WHO SENT YOU?"

And this bit he roars, and the man jumps, startled, nicking his knuckle on the shears and yelping before letting out a choked sob.

Jim sighs, slipping the man's finger out and taking a step back. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, is it too much to ask for a straight answer without the screaming? I just want to KNOW, you imbecile! I'll even let you _go_ ~, if you're a good little _boy_ ~!"

The man shakes and sobs. Then, brokenly, he sputters, "I-I-I wasn't s-sent by anyone, I-I just wanted to know who h-helped my wife out of g-getting caught for st-stealing from the b-bank…"

"Liiiiarrrr," Jim drawls out. Sebastian enters then, face stoic and displeased as usual, and hands Jim his coffee. "Ah, thank you, Seb!" and he pats the man on the head like a dog. Returning to his captive, Jim sips languidly at the hot beverage and inclines his head to the other side, raising a brow. "I haven't helped anyone with bank robbery lately, and most of my clients have been men. So please, stop trying to play games with me; you're the one's who tied up in a chair with cigar snippers out of your reach but perfectly ready to slice off your pretty little digits, now, aren't you?"

The man snivels and shakes his head. "Y-you'll have to kill me, then, 'cause I can't tell you. _They'll_ kill me anyway if I tell you, especially if you let me go."

"Oh, well that doesn't change anything, then," Jim blinks, tempted to roll his eyes. "You might as well just say it, then. You'll be dead either way, so why let good information go to waste?"

The man looks helpless. So Jim decides to help him think clearer.

In one swift move, there is a snapping sound, and the man's pinky finger is lying on the cold cement floor, and blood is spurting out in a lovely little arc before dripping long and slow, in tiny bursts with each rapid pulse.

The man's scream is like a symphony to Jim's ears. He sighs pleasantly and takes another sip of his coffee. "There, _see_ ~? You'll be dead in pieces or from blood loss at this rate, so you might as well tell me who's been tracking me. It will save us all a load of trouble, I assure you. And if not… do you have a _wife_? I bet she would _love_ to get your pinky finger in the mail!"

The man is hyperventilating, but he does manage to give Jim a name. "M-Mycroft Holmes!"

"Holmes?" Jim says thoughtfully. "Now, that does sound familiar, doesn't it? Hmm. The government comes to mind. I love the government~; it's so professionally slow-witted!" And he chuckles to himself. Turning on his heel, he hails someone in the rafters above. "Kill him, Seb; he's useless now."

There's a silenced gunshot, and then a splatting, squelching noise, and then dead silence, a welcome reprieve from all that ragged breathing and high-pitched shrieking.

Jim glances back at the corpse and makes a face. "Ew, _yucky._ Going to need a real good cleaning crew for this lot."

VII.

" _I can't control myself because I don't know how~ and they love me for it, honestly, I'll be here for a while~! So give 'em blood, blood, gallons of the stuff; give 'em all that they can drink and it will never be enough; so give 'em blood, blood, bloooood~ Grab a glass because there's going to be a flood!"_ Jim sings aloud as he jams in the private car, Sebastian to his right, one of the earbuds from Jim's iPod in the rifleman's ear. "Don't you just love American music sometimes, Seb?"

"No," Sebastian grunts, yanking the earbud out. "It's ridiculous and hurts my ears."

"Oh, come now. This song is fun!" Jim pouts.

He leans into Sebastian's side, and the man is a brick wall. But a loyal brick wall who would never let Jim get hurt, and would do anything for Jim, because Jim spared his life and gave him the best job of his career and trusts him. Sebastian has a debt to be paid, and even though he thinks that his master, the great Moriarty, is a little more than silly and insane at times, he wouldn't change his situation for the world.

"Ah, here, then. I'll play you a song we both like. Headphone in," Jim instructs, and plucks the dropped earbud from the seat between them and tacks it into Sebastian's ear. "There. Here we go~," and he starts to play _I Can't Decide_ by the Scissor Sisters, and it actually earns the smallest of smiles from the otherwise stoic sniper next to him.

VIII.

Sometime in his early thirties, Jim hears of someone the police went to for help with a particularly complicated murder case. He pays off a lesser cop and gets a name: Sherlock Holmes.

There, now _that_ is familiar. It takes Jim all but a moment to grin and remember a suspicious young man years and years and years ago, back when Carl Powers was Jim's sole bully, problem, and first victim. Seems Mr. Holmes has come out of the woodwork once again, and oh, look, if Jim Google searches the name, there's a website!

Jim scrolls through each and every article on the website. Sherlock is a proper genius just like him! A rush fills Jim's senses; it's electric and warm and bursting inside him like a miniature sun. He leaves anonymous comments in the forum. He can't help himself; he just _has_ to make himself known.

 _The Science of Deduction._ It's fascinating and perfect. Jim is intrigued. Jim is a fan. Jim has found the perfect distraction.

IX.

"Boss, you can't keep doing this to yourself."

His lips quirk into a smile. "Is that _concern_ I hear, Seb? How very unlike you."

"I'm serious. It's dangerous," the other presses.

"Oh, I know the risks, darling~. And I assure you, I know how to avoid any real damage."

The sniper snakes his head. "I wish you'd stop. We need you in top form. We have clients to tend to."

He sighs and waves it off, clearly bored. "Oh, I know, I know. Quit being such a mother hen, Sebastian; it doesn't look good on your gruff face." And for effect, he lightly smacks the side of Moran's face twice, hearing the slightly hollow slap and watching as the rifleman doesn't so much as blink.

He removes the hand from his face and gives it a painful squeeze before tossing it. "I mean it. When you're high, you might think your brain is sharper, but you're only more reckless. You nearly got a man killed last time."

Jim lets out an annoyed groan. "And what does it matter? Half of the time we're _telling_ people how to hide someone they've killed." He puts on a mock falsetto and relays with forced whininess, "'Moriarty, fix this for me, I've messed it all up. Moriarty, I don't know how to be a criminal, but I don't want to get caught. Moriarty, please, O Wise One Of All Things Brilliantly Dastardly, help me, _help me._ '" He drops the act and dramatically exclaims, "–They're all drolly the _same,_ Seb! The only way to keep myself from tearing my lovely hair out at them _is_ to use drugs!"

"Well, I won't help you do it anymore," his underling retorts tartly. He turns and leaves the room, the door of Jim's immaculate (and nearly OCD-clean; no organized chaos for him) flat slamming shut rather loudly, making Jim's ears ring. He sighs.

"Oh, now I've gone and made him mad at me. How _adorable._ "

And it doesn't bother him, really. Instead, he sinks back onto his sofa and closes his eyes, letting his high take him wherever it pleases.

X.

Jim Moriarty doesn't like to get his hands dirty.

He likes cleanliness, order. He likes every little lackey in their proper place, every little hair tacked down and accounted for, all his suits pressed just so, and every last factor in his knowledge.

But.

But one little thing he didn't expect to happen, happened: a client leaked. They gave Sherlock Holmes his name. Just 'Moriarty,' just his signature, but enough. Enough that it bothers Jim, just a little.

And he knows there will be more leaks sooner or later. He doesn't like it. One old man close to death spilled the beans, and now Jim has to clean up the mess.

It's irksome. But besides that, it's a smidge relieving, because at least his fanboyish nature can be elaborated on.

Who knows? Maybe this will earn him an autograph. That would be _splendid_.

XI.

On occasion, Jim does, however, get his hands dirty.

When he has a spy to interrogate, when he has people on his tail (although nobody ever truly gets to him, not quite), or when he personally feels the urge to do a little crime himself (for his own benefit, usually; something to get him something in return, like a precious item or money or publicity). These are examples of times when he _does_ soil his hands a little, if only to live up to his reputation.

After all, Jim simply cannot make the threats he does without making good on some of them, can he? Why, if he didn't, he wouldn't very well live up the name he's built for himself, would he? And he can't have that. People need to fear him.

It's much better to be feared rather than loved. When people love you, they take advantage of you. But when they fear you, they will do anything to spare them your wrath.

Of course, there is always the fine line to walk with fear to consider, because it is a line that can possibly be crossed and will lead to an uprising, his people rebelling against him. So Jim tries to be a fair but firm ruler over all the lesser criminals.

It works, he thinks. He makes for a good king. A cold, cynical, eerie king, but one with a soft voice and soft face to be just pleasing enough to manipulate and goad and control.

And Jim likes it that way, even if his fingernails wind up getting some crusted blood under them in the end.

_But that's what manicures are for~._

XII.

"You are so hideous and sexy. Only a mother could love that face. And only I could make love to it. Look at you, all scars and stubble and stress lines and insomniac bags. Such a diamond in the rough you are, Seb," Jim remarks as he grips the sniper's face between his hands and digs his nails into the man's scalp. "You squandered whatever good genes you had, didn't you? But it's all right. I like you this way."

And he roughly shoves Sebastian to his knees and pries his ugly, beautiful mouth open and lets that stoic tongue get a bit wild for a while.

XIII.

"I could eat you up, Sherlock, I really could; you're Little Detective Sherlock and I'm Big Bad Moriarty and this time, I have the huntsman on _my_ side and even Kindly Old John can't save you from my chomping jaws," Jim smirks as he strokes a photo of Sherlock on his phone, the same one he sent to Miss Adler as a treat not two days ago.

He sighs and bites down on the corner of his phone and pretends, for a moment, that it is the taunt muscle of Sherlock's tense shoulder. He hums to himself, reclining back in his swivel desk chair and propping his feet up on his mahogany worktable.

"I'll get you soon, my pretty~," he thinks aloud, and if he's changed stories from Riding Hood to Oz, he doesn't much care, because the outcome will, eventually, be the same for his own story: he's get Sherlock, and there's nothing he can do about it, because in the Real World, the hero doesn't always win.

And it is _so_ very fun to be the villain.

XIV.

Doctor John Watson is a good little guard dog. He is loyal and just smart enough to obey orders, and he is brave enough to remain calm and protect his master.

It's endearing, really. But also completely sickening.

Jim rolls his eyes at the entire display at the pool. And he's won and he knows he's won, even though Irene distracted him and even though he knows this will bite him in the ass later.

But he can, at least, appreciate how sentimental Sherlock is about his pet, and that is key. That tells Jim just where Sherlock's heart lies, and how easy it is to trace when needed, and just how easy it will be to dissect when obtained.

Because with John Watson in Jim's hands, it's like taking a child-Sherlock's puppy from his arms and strangling it with his bare hands.

XV.

There are no moments when Jim possess fear.

Absolutely none.

Being held over the edge of a building? Gun in his face? Bus hurtling toward him? Knife against his spine?

No fear. Not even an ounce of it. Not a shred of panic, doubt, or worry.

He feels nothing when faced with a direct threat of his life. Of being caught? Yes, a bit. His life? No, none.

In fact, what he does feel is some excitement, the thrill of possibly having his lights blown out like a candle in a burst of too much fire.

It amuses him, in a way. He smiles in the face of Fear.

Because, life? Going through it? It's all rather boring. It would be interesting to be in a situation most people would and should fear.

Some would say that this makes him psychotic, inhuman.

This isn't news to Jim at all.

XVI.

"…And when I do that, Sherlock will –"

"Can you shut up about Sherlock Holmes for five seconds? And why do you keep texting him with 'x's and 'o's at the end?"

Aw, Sebastian is furious. He's all jumpy and gritting his teeth and flushed and _livid._ It's adorable.

Jim pats his rifleman on the arm and sighs. "Ah, I see. You're jealous. It's to be expected. But don't worry, Sebby, _Daddy still loves you~,"_ he adds in sing-song and gives him a rough lick on the ear. "But all right, I don't want you too mad before your next job, or else you might make a mistake. I'll quit monologuing at you about my plans for him."

"Thank you," Seb mutters coldly. And it will have to do for now.

XVII.

Having tea with his arch nemesis. How so very droll, he thinks.

"It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. The Fall."

He makes the whistle of a cartoon character falling to its doom. He makes the garbled noise of the collision at the bottom of a ravine. His head follows the motion. He lifts it. He smiles darkly. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. (It never does. Jim has never smiled honestly. Only ever to manipulate. Only ever half-insanely.) His black, soulless eyes. A spider's eyes.

He continues, "Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. O. U."

He carves it into the blood red apple. It tastes sweet and crisp, like victory. He's already won. The court case was nothing. This is where the real danger lies, the true excitement. But Sherlock can't win. He's fallen for all of Jim's tricks already.

The fly is in the spider's web, and he has baited it into a web blanket and tucked it in for the night. All that's left is to stab it and suck it dry.

Jim stabs the apple and leaves it for Sherlock to see. Like a threat.

_I_

_O_

_U_

XVIII.

Sometimes, Jim fantasizes things going another way.

Kidnapping Sherlock. Drugging him so he won't know where he's going, won't be able to fight back. Tying him up. Stripping him. When he wakes, leaning up against him, touching him, nibbling his lips, cutting a gentle line down his throat and slowly licking the blood away.

Telling him, "All's fair in love and war, babe; and boy, do I _love_ war. And ours has been such a darling little war, too."

Wouldn't fully rape him or beat him, though. It would just be a power-play, a humiliation thing, a demonstration.

To show him who runs this business, and how he's gotten in the way. To prove how easily Jim could shove Sherlock _out_ of the way. To prove that he could hurt him. To show that, were they to join forces, this could be a good thing for Sherlock. This could be something he could enjoy – the plotting of crime; evading the police, the government; watching all the marionettes dance; being with Jim – were he to give into it.

But this fantasy is only a fantasy. Sherlock would never go for it.

He's on the side of the angels, and angels don't cave in to the temptation of the devil. Divine power; they are not mere humans, mere mortals. But they play on opposite ends.

And it's tragic, really, because Jim likes Sherlock. He's the only intellectual equal Jim has ever met, because even Mycroft Holmes is on another level than the pair of consultants.

XIX

Rooftops are a good way to do it. A nice way to go. Final destination after a single step off the ledge. Quick pain, sudden death. It's good. It's not original, but all right. It still works. Because just staying alive is so boring, isn't it? Death is a much greater adventure. What will come afterward? No one on this wide blue planet knows for sure. They have ideas, but nobody _knows._

Guns work just as well, however.

Jim grips Sherlock's hand. "Bless you," he says, and he means it. _Thank you. You're me. Bless the angel for showing the devil that they were once one and the same._

Sherlock feels warmer than Jim. His skin is hotter, his hand bigger. He's taller, so that makes sense. He's keyed up with adrenaline and anticipation, and that makes sense. Jim is already dead. His skin is cold, his fingertips numb. But Sherlock feels warm. He can sense that much.

The gun in his mouth is warm and cool at the same time.

He doesn't even feel the bullet.

XX

Poor Colonel Moran. He must be so torn up, so lost. He would never show it – in person, he is the embodiment of _stoic_ – but inside, he must be a wreck.

Poor little Sebastian. Daddy needs to comfort him.

"You're so quiet. You hardly say much anyway, but you're _so quiet_ ," Jim regards as he enters the room. "Did you miss me that much?"

Seb takes one look at him and then loses it. He hurtles objects at Jim, which Jim doges gracefully, gasping, "Oh! Oop! Yikes!" with that grin on his face again.

"You rotten bastard!" the gunman yells shrilly. "I thought you were dead! I saw your bleedin' skull, the fragments of it mixing with the blood, and –"

"I am dead, Sebastian," Jim replies quietly, moving to hold him from behind. "You're dreaming again. But doesn't this feel nice? – Now then. Tell me the latest crime. I want to know I'm still doing well, even in death."

The rifleman jerks awake with a cold sweat on his brow.

He puts his face in his hands.

" _Boss._ "

This will never be okay. He was told not to seek revenge, told not to kill if Sherlock Holmes died – and he has – but he wants to. He's itching to. Sebastian wants to hurt anyone it takes to make himself stop hurting.

He doesn't even know why he wants the bastard back. He really was an asshole, even if he was a good fuck. He was controlling and manipulative and smug and insane.

But dammit, Moran loved him. And now he's gone. _For good._

.:End:.


End file.
